


Better, Better, Better...

by xxwrote_my_way_outxx



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: Angst, Depression, Existential Crisis, F/F, F/M, He drinks too much?, M/M, Multi, Romance, implied internalized homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-12-11 08:48:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11710956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxwrote_my_way_outxx/pseuds/xxwrote_my_way_outxx
Summary: He used to be better.He used to be better.He used to be better.He was better before others ruined him. Broke him. Used him. People sipped from his pockets and from his affections as often as he sipped from his flask to escape the pain of being insignificant. The only thing that would keep him company in his world were his theories, his new philosophies, and his ability to barricade himself inside of the shell of a man that he used to be.





	Better, Better, Better...

**Author's Note:**

> "Living out his final days in Moscow...  
> Oh Pierre..."

He drank too much. 

Vodka and wine warmed his heart, which was something that he wife certainly couldn’t do. She was busy warming the bodies of other men, keeping a bed neat for another man, wandering away to anywhere that wasn’t by his side despite his decline. He stirred the wine in his cup with an absent yet also occupied mind. The thoughts that invaded his head like Napoleon invaded Russia swarmed so quickly that he simultaneously felt empty and obsolete. His eyes would wander back towards the desk that he frequented and the quill that twitched in his hand.  
How was he supposed to write if he had no muse? 

He used to be better. 

He used to be better. 

He used to be better. 

He was better before others ruined him. Broke him. Used him. People sipped from his pockets and from his affections as often as he sipped from his flask to escape the pain of being insignificant. The only thing that would keep him company in his world were his theories, his new philosophies, and his ability to barricade himself inside of the shell of a man that he used to be. 

He used to be better. 

He used to be better. 

He used to be better. 

He could remember a time when he didn’t waste away his days like his wife wasted away his coin on drinks for other men and women and threw away his desire for intimacy. Days when he didn’t shoot at a man who willingly slept with his wife even though his wife was openly willing and the man was obliging. A day when he wasn’t covering up for his relatives, who were often as angry as he was depressed. He could reminisce on the time when her brother stole his heart and then disappeared as quickly as he came. A time when he wasn’t left consoling a young girl the way that he wished someone comforted him after the same blonde betrayed him. 

It used to be better. 

He used to better. 

It used to be better. 

He could dredge up the moments where his heart was full of love and hope. A time where he didn’t need the stinging of alcohol to soothe his aching body. The only sentimental attachments he could form were through ale and pity. Too many pitied him and he despised it. Why pity him when the people who did so were the ones who caused his demise?  
They pitied him. 

He pitied him.

He pitied them.

He was disgusted with himself. Revolted with his being. When he lit a candle and looked in the mirror, he saw nothing. His existence was null. An endless spiral of self-loathing and reminiscing on days that he couldn’t change if he wanted to. 

Was he supposed to forget about how hopeful he was to get married? How he longed for a wife after having met her brother, after having loved her brother but having him slip from his hands? How in love he was with the idea of a loving wife, a new beginning, someone to help him love himself? Her beauty made his heart soar and he fell as quickly as he flew. 

Was he supposed to forget when he thought that he could win her back by challenging an arrogant man to a duel and forgetting his humanity for a few moments just so he could try to feel like a man again?

It was pitiful. 

Was he supposed to neglect the love that him and the other Kuragin made before he even met his wife to be? Was he supposed to disremember each longing look across the room, and the later desperate kisses behind closed doors where he let go of any idea of caring about degeneracy? And how was he ever supposed to forget the promises of love that they whispered to each other after their indulgence, which gave Pierre false hope and made his heart feel as if it were healed for just a few short months? And how would he ever disregard the way that his heart shattered and burned into dust when Anatole left him for the snobbish brute that also stole away his wife? And how could he ever forget how he marred another person, a beautiful young woman and stole her away from her betrothed due to her naïve personality? Never could he ever forgive him not thinking of others, of not acknowledging the pain of others, even though he knew the blonde was fighting his own demons and he couldn’t judge him. Only pity him. That disgusting feeling. The way the girl’s broken eyes reflected back the future that the candle in the mirror wouldn’t and he knew that they would bathe together in their shared pain. The idea of the young Natasha wasting away the rest of her days like an old man like him in the bitter, chill air of Moscow stirred his rotten heart. Nobody deserved that… Pierre wished that he could absorb all of her pain so that she didn’t have to feel it.. And he would never be able to forget the memories that haunted him and plagued his entity. Trauma like that would kill the best of men and women, and he hated that he was a terrible, wicked man. That was the only explanation for his fate, though not for hers. 

He used to be better. 

She used to be better. 

They used to be better…


End file.
